Born Ugly: Book One
by Kassandra Ramsey
Summary: Modern Day Will be three books. First book is Erik's POV starting with the day he is born and ending when he discovers that he is the Phantom of the Opera. Overall story is ErikChristine
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay this is my first POTO fic, so be gentle. I guess my Erik is a mixture of all of them, although I did get the inspiration for this from Susan Kay more than any of the others. Oh, and don't let the different names deter you from reading. By book Two Erik and Christine will have their rightful names.

Chapter One

I'm different, always have been. I look different, act different, and think different. I make people nervous with my uniqueness, even though I was fortunate enough to be born in a time and country where diverseness is celebrated. If I had been born a hundred years ago, I would have died at birth. Life would have been much simpler if I had. However, of all the adjectives one can use to describe life, 'simple' has never been one.

Think as far back as you can to your very first memory. How old were you? Two? Three? More than likely, you were older. Five or six. Perhaps a few of you may even have a vague recollection of your very first birthday. What of me, you ask? I remember everything. Starting with the very moment I first opened my eyes.

I don't know much about the woman who gave birth to me. I knew her name was Annie, and that she was a sixteen-year-old drug addict who died soon after I was delivered. A sadly typical story in this day and age.

She'd kept her habit during the whole of the pregnancy, and while she received peace in the end, I was forced to live and suffer.

The doctor who delivered me was expecting a deformed baby from the pictures on the sonogram. But even he could not help his shocked gasp as I slithered from the girl's body and into his hands. I suppose I'm lucky he didn't drop me. The first thing I ever saw was the horrified look in his dull brown eyes as he looked me over.

Born three months too early, I was small, underdeveloped, and sure to not last a day. That's what the doctors told my grandmother anyway. Being a good Christian woman, she sent for a priest and had me baptized that afternoon.

Several doctors and nurses came in to look at me, curiously.

The left side of my face was as smooth and clear as any healthy baby's would be, but the right side was not. My right cheekbone was inverted, causing the incredibly thin skin over it to sink into my faceleaving a hole. The pale skin was so thin that you could see each and every one of my veins from the nose level to a few inches above my hairless scalp. A throbbing pulse was visible in a knot a few inches above my left eye, and the skin beneath the eye hung down like it wasn't attached right. Of course I had no idea at the time that I didn't look right. I was a newborn, and my vision did not allow me to see more than a few distant blurs.

I heard words of pity, and was often referred to as a 'crack baby'.

Daniel Rydel is the name on my birth certificate. The only person who knew the identity of my father was dead, and so I was simply given the dead girl's last name. (Even nowI cannot bring myself past the hate to refer to her as my mother.) My grandmother didn't want to give me her last name, but as she was assured that I'd soon be dead, she finally relented.

She's always blamed me for taking her daughter's life. The first time she held me, she called me a murderer. I didn't know what that meant yet, but I remembered it. I always remember.

When I awoke the next morning, the nurses were stunned. Everyone was so sure that I'd die during the night, and I have to admit I took pleasure in proving them wrong.

My grandmother didn't want me, but the priest convinced her to take me anyway.

"We could fix his face. A few plastic surgeries could have him looking almost normal," a nurse told her as they packed me up to leave.

"He killed my daughter. God is punishing him for that, and I'll not interfere," she snapped, and roughly fastened me into a carrier. She was sure to cover my face with a blanket before we left, glaring at anyone who asked to look at 'the baby'.

She took me to her house, which smelled of smoke and made each breath I took hurt like a knife in my chest. I had no crib or cradle, just a drawer from an old dresser. Luckily for me, she left the drawer on the floor, where the air was cleaner, and I was able to breathe normally again.

My mind was filled with questions, and I tried my absolute best to ask them aloud, but this 'speaking' thing was much more difficult than it had seemed. I quickly grew frustrated and started crying.

It was almost humorous watching her attempts to pacify me. A toy waved in my face, a bottle shoved into my mouth. She pounded my back, bounced me on her knee, but still I screamed and raged, not sure myself what I really wanted.

I quieted for a minute when she began to sing.

_Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,_

_When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,_

_When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,_

_And down will come baby, cradle and all._

Her voice was quivering and broken, and yet I was fascinated. When she stopped singing, I started.

My small mouth couldn't form words, but I could make noises of different pitches, and soon the melody was coming from my mouth in perfect tune.

She threw me to the ground, screaming, and ran from the house.

The wind was knocked out of me when I hit the floor, but even after regaining my breath, I did not cry. It seemed pointless to cry when no one would hear me. I just lay there trying to understand my grandmother's fear.

I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew, the priest was lifting me from the ground.

My grandmother had calmed down, and was now humming and trying to get me to sing. However, last time I sang, I had been painfully dropped to the ground so I had no intention of repeating this error.

I started crying again, hoping that the priest could figure out what I wanted. Maybe he could help me communicate, or just explain this existence I found myself in.

He didn't. He just prayed, and after I cried myself to sleep, he left.

When I awoke again, I cried with renewed vigor.

My grandmother cursed me for disturbing her at the ungodly hour of three in the morning, and thus introduced me to the concept of time. She bathed me, fed me, and then tucked me into the drawer again. I fussed a little, not wanting to sleep anymore.

She stared at me warily, and then softly started singing again. The sound of her voice again reminded me of the painful fall to the floor earlier that day, and I screamed all the louder in an attempt to quiet her.

"Fine!" she yelled, picking up the drawer and carrying it to a room I'd never been in before.

And then she did it. She gave me what I had spent the fourth day of my life crying for. She propped me up in the drawer, and sat me in front of the television.

The days blend together after that. My grandmother told her friends and neighbors that the television had been a godsend, and made the perfect babysitter. For once, I agreed with her. The first thing that occurred to me was the sheer number of words there are in the English language. After that was all the different ways one could say them.

When I was a month old, my grandmother began to leave me alone in the house for short periods of time. Never more than a couple of hours, but we got along much better after that. She acted much more kindly to me after she had been able to be away for a couple of hours.

I treasured the time she was away, for only when I knew that I was truly alone, did I speak. The words never sounded the same when I spoke them than when the actors on the television did. I was four months old before it occurred to me that this was because I didn't have teeth.

I waited anxiously for my teeth to grown in, although when they finally came, I almost wished they hadn't. There was constant pain and drooling, and we were both irritable from it.

When I was a year old, I was ready to walk. But I had to be careful. I knew from watching the babies on television that their minds were much simpler than my own. If I ever showed her my true intelligence, it would frighten her. That was what had happened the day she taught me to sing.

I sat up in my drawer and hollered for her.

"Gamma!" I called, knowing this was okay since I had heard a baby close to my age on the television say this.

The cigarette fell from her mouth, and she hastily picked it up, cursing.

"See what you made me do?" she demanded, pointing at the singed carpet.

I rolled my eyes, and she took an involuntary step backwards.

Uh-oh.

She was afraid. Apparently babies didn't roll their eyes.

I rubbed at my eyes, doing my best to make her think the eye roll had been an accident, and she seemed to relax a little.

"You're just seeing things," I heard her mutter to herself.

She walked over to my drawer and looked down at me.

"Well? What do you want?" she demanded.

I stretched my hands toward her and said, "Up!"

She blinked in surprise, but stuck the cigarette into her mouth and lifted me up.

"Down," I said then, delighted that we were communicating.

This time, she rolled her eyes, and began to lower me back into the drawer.

"No! Floor!" I cried.

She froze, and for a moment I thought that I'd gone too far. But then she lowered me to the carpet on my stomach, muttering, "It's the TV, he's just picked up some words watching TV, it was bound to happen."

I was hoping she'd leave me alone again after that, but she sat in a chair and looked at me expectantly.

I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, and rocked back and forth a few times. I was doing something wrong. I felt the overwhelming urge to cry. Crawling looked so easy on the TV!

I took a deep shuddering breath, then lay down on my stomach, and attempted to roll onto my back. It took four tries, but I succeeded.

It was harder to sit up without any support, but eventually I did it.

I looked at my grandmother for some type of praise, but she just lifted an eyebrow and took a drag off of the cigarette.

I was frustrated, and wanted to cry again. I knew that if I started crying, I'd tire myself out, and I intended to be walking by the end of the day.

So I swallowed my pride and looked up at my grandmother again.

"Help me," I said, probably a little too clearly.

"Help you what?" she asked skeptically.

"Walk!"

"Oh, is that what you're trying to do? I thought babies were supposed to crawl first," she said suspiciously.

"Walk!" I cried again, petulantly.

She sighed in annoyance.

"Alright, I'm coming."

She stood up and walked over to me, lifting me to my feet by my arms. She held my arms up as I took steps. I was walking, sort of. It made me feel powerful.

"Okay, let go," I said, and she dropped my arms.

I fell down and started crying.

"Oh, stop it! No one walks on their first try," she told me irritably.

I quit crying, and lifted my arms to her again.

"I don't have time for this right now," she said, and picked me up to put me back in the drawer.

"No, please!" I cried, and she froze again.

"Walk!" I shouted desperately.

She sighed, then put me by the sofa, showing me how to hold on with my hands.

"Here, this is how my Annie learned to walk. Just hold on and walk back and forth by the sofa. Then when you're strong enough, try letting go. If you fall, just pull yourself back up, and don't cry! I've got stuff to do," she said as she stepped back to watch me begin.

I did as she instructed, carefully holding onto the cushions as I moved back and forth. I looked at her with a grin, showing off my teeth. She gave me a hesitant smile, then shook her head.

"You shouldn't be able to understand all that. It's creepy," she confessed.

I shrugged and said, "Don't care."

She left the room and I continued to practice. It ended up taking a good two days, but I finally mastered it.

After that, I was ready to explore the house. It was only one story, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but it still took a couple of days to learn it all. My grandmother watched me carefully as I did this, pointing out the things I shouldn't touch, and even telling me why when I asked.

A few days later, she took me into the bathroom and showed me how the toilet worked. She never had to change my diaper again after that, which I could tell pleased her.

Over the next year, I learned how to read and write. Sesame Street helped me at first, but I quickly grew bored with it and moved onto teaching myself. I hit Grandmother's books, and after getting tired of me asking what certain words meant, she bought me a dictionary. It was the most precious thing she'd ever given me.

I soon grew too big for the drawer, and so she reluctantly moved me to the guestroom—threatening me not to mess it up. I pointed out a few weeks later that I kept my room much cleaner than hers. She just glared at me.

Even with all of the knowledge I now possessed, I still had no clue about my deformity. I didn't know what I looked like, as I was not tall enough to see into the bathroom mirror. It had never occurred to me to wonder about that.

A few weeks after I turned three, my grandmother and I were eating lunch when I asked the question she'd been dreading.

"I have to go to the store this afternoon," she said casually.

"Can I come with you?" I asked, and she nearly choked.

"No, Daniel, I don't think that would be a good idea," she said, finally.

"Why not? You don't have to worry about me misbehaving. Besides, I'm curious about the outside world. I want to see all of these things I've read about and watched on the television," I said hopefully.

She sighed and gave me a pitying look.

"Oh, Daniel. I'm afraid you'll never fit in out there," she said sadly.

"What? Why not?" I demanded.

She seemed to think it over for a moment before answering.

"Well, the way you talk—for one thing. You're only three-years-old, and kids that young aren't supposed to be able to talk and understand things as well as you do," she pointed out.

I rolled my eyes.

"I know that! I also know how to act like a normal three-year-old. No one will know that I'm different," I told her smugly.

She laughed.

"You might be able to hide your intelligence, but you can't hide your face," she said with a smirk.

That confused me.

"Why would I need to hide my face?" I asked, feeling a knot of dread in my stomach.

She looked at me sharply.

"Have you never looked in a mirror?" she demanded.

I shook my head.

"I'm not tall enough," I said, sheepishly.

As curious as I was about everything around me, it did seem odd that I'd never looked in a mirror.

"Well, come on then. Let's get this over with," she said, gesturing for me to follow her to the bathroom.

I followed slowly, knowing that whatever was about to be revealed to me would be unpleasant.

When she lifted me up and sat me on the counter by the sink, I suddenly wished that I'd never asked to go out.

The face in the mirror seemed too gruesome to be real, but reaching up to touch my sunken cheek, I knew it was.

"I'd like to be alone, please," I whispered hoarsely.

She nodded solemnly and left the room.

For the first time since I'd learned to walk, I cried.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

A week later, my grandmother brought home a gift for me. It was a mask and a wig that completely covered my deformity.

"The priest suggested it. You will have to leave the house to go to school soon, hopefully this will help," she said, although she looked a bit unsure.

She took me to the library for my very first outing. People stared and wouldn't wave back at me when I waved at them. They ignored me, so I did the same.

Grandmother brought me to the children's section where I was delighted to find a couple of kids my age.

"Hello, my name is Daniel; what's yours?" I held out my hand to a pretty girl with blond pigtails.

"Ew! Boys have cooties!" she cried, quickly leaving for her mother.

What were cooties? I looked closely at my hand, but didn't see anything.

I walked over to a table where a boy sat coloring, and decided to try again.

"Hello, my name is Daniel, what's yours?" I asked andamicably extended my hand again.

"Adam. You talk funny," he said, givingmy hand an exaggerated handshake.

"Uh, nice to meet you, Adam," I said uncertainly.

"Is that your Hal-ween costume?" he asked, eyeing my mask with curiosity.

"No, it's March. Halloween isn't until October," I told him.

He blinked at me, uncomprehending what I was saying.

"Why are you wearing a mask then?" he asked.

I thought about my answer for a moment. How would a normal three-year-old respond to that question?

"I'm ugly," I said, finally.

He smiled.

"Cool, I wanna see!" he exclaimed, reaching for the mask with his stubby fingers.

"I don't think-"

He ripped it off and gave a gasp of fright.

I hastily snatched it back and put it on again, thankful that the wig hadn't fallen off.

"I told you I was ugly," I said bitterly, and he began crying.

I quickly left before I attracted any attention.

I idly looked through the books on the shelves, deciding that I'd done enough socializing, and was pleasantly surprised to come across an Arts and Crafts book. It had a whole section on making different kinds of masks.

I showed the book to my grandmother when she came back for me, and was surprised at how very enthusiastic she was about making more masks. We even stopped by an arts supplies store before we went home.

The masks were fun and worked fine on our little outings, but when I started school a year-and-a-half later, we realized that they weren't going to work.

I came home beat up by the older school kids everyday of my first week. My grandmother made several trips to the school to complain, but nothing was ever done.

When I ended up in the hospital the following week, she finally allowed me to have a consultation with a plastic surgeon. The man was very excited about the possibilities, and I was so happy that I might actually get to look normal.

The money for it would be astronomical, but I begged my grandmother, and promised to pay back every cent.

The night before the surgery, my grandmother sat me down to talk.

"Daniel, please don't get your hopes up too high. Dr. Crate thinks he can fix your face real good, but there is always the chance that it won't work."

"Don't worry. I've read all about the risks. But this is just something I've got to try!" I told her, and she nodded.

"Grandmother?" I asked, suddenly.

"Yes?"

"Does this mean that you've forgiven me for killing Annie?" I asked.

Her face turned deathly pale, and she ran from the room.

I never got the answer to that question, so I guess she never did.

End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The surgery didn't work. They'd given me a fake cheekbone that collapsed after only a day. I ended up looking worse than I had before the surgery.

My grandmother pitied me so much that she said I wouldn't have to pay her back, but I knew she wouldn't have been so generous had she not just inherited a lot of money from her aunt.

The doctor was profusely apologetic, and told me that he was going to give me a prosthetic to wear over my face. This would be to protect the thin skin and to hold the sagging skin up. It was a flesh-colored mask, definitely an improvement over the ones I'd had in the past.

I spent the next eleven years being home-schooled. I simply did the work that the school gave my grandmother, then did my own projects.

I drew pictures, made model airplanes, and read almost every book in the local library. I spent most of my days in the library. The librarian, Mrs. Peterson, had been suspicious about me at first, but my grandmother explained my situation to her, and she became fascinated by me. She welcomed me every morning with a smile, and a new book or article for me to read. I learned a lot under her informal tutelage, and had even begun to think of Mrs. Peterson as a friend.

She got teary-eyed when I told her this, and she soon gave me a pass so that I could use the computer to get on the internet. What an amazing invention! Anything one could possibly want to know about could be found in this vast pool of knowledge.

Mrs. Peterson delighted in expanding my knowledge on a number of different subjects. There was one thing, however, that I avoided like a plague. Music. At the very word a torrent of heartache would nearly bring me to my knees. I couldn't stand listening to the radio, and there were many times when I'd change the channel or turn off the television completely because of the music. The mute and captions buttons became my best friends.

The one time she brought it up, I became so upset that I nearly passed out. She had to drive me home that night as I was in no condition to walk the three miles home. I went straight to my room, but I could hear her and my grandmother talking down the hall.

My grandmother told her of the incident when I was four days old. I hadn't tried to sing since then, and rejected all of her attempts to change that.

After Mrs. Peterson left, I laid awake for hours pondering the situation. My aversion to music was too strong for it to be about that one incident. There had to be another reason for it.

That night, I dreamed of music. I was sitting at an elaborate organ, pounding on the keys and filling a cavernous room with swells of sound. I wanted desperately to stop, but I couldn't. I played on and on, tears streaming down my face, until I heard a voice singing.

_Where is my Angel of Music?_

_Come to me Angel of Music_.

It was lovely and pure, and I began weeping for an entirely different reason.

I awoke shivering, the sweet voice ringing through my head.

One morning when I was twelve, I walked in the front door of the library and came to a halt. Mrs. Peterson was not behind the counter. Instead there was a severe looking woman glaring suspiciously at my mask. Her nametag read, 'Ms. Putman'.

I wanted to scream with rage, and had to take a deep breath to calm myself. This abrupt deviation from the routine that I was quite fond of left me shaken. As politely as I could, I demanded that Ms. Putman tell me where Mrs. Peterson was.

She sniffed and told me very haughtily that the old woman's house had caught fire the night before, and it would be several days before she would return to work if she returned at all.

"Where is her house?" I asked.

"I'm sorry young man, but I cannot give you that information," she said, with a smug smile.

I wanted to hurt her. To burn down her house so that she would know the pain that Mrs. Peterson was undoubtedly suffering from. But I didn't. I just thanked her, and walked quickly to the computers. It was nothing for me to hack into the library's personnel files, and I grinned in triumph once I had retrieved the address.

I covered my tracks and logged out of the computer. It had only taken about five minutes, and Ms. Putnam stopped me as I was leaving.

"What were you doing?" she demanded.

"Checking my e-mail," I said, nonchalantly.

"I don't like this. A kid your age should be in school right now."

I didn't respond, just ducked around her, and hurried away.

It was a good ten-mile hike to Mrs. Peterson's. Her house had been small, but the property it sat on was huge. Fifteen acres, most of it covered in trees. Her house sat in a small clearing in the middle. It was a lovely place for a house, nice and secluded. I fell in love with it instantly.

She was sitting on a lawn chair, staring despondently at the blackened remains of her house. Two men were walking through the wreckage with clipboards, and would stop every now and then to take a picture.

Another man stood off to the side talking heatedly into a cell phone.

I cautiously approached her.

"Mrs. Peterson?"

"Huh? Oh, hello Daniel. I'd invite you in for cookies but…" she trailed off with a humorless smile.

I nodded, and then sat down on the grass at her feet. For some reason I couldn't quite understand, I felt very protective of her and didn't want to leave.

"That's my son on the phone over there. He flew in this morning from New York to help me out, but he's been on the phone all morning. I guess I should just be grateful he came at all," she admitted sheepishly.

I felt the desire to hurt her son, who was on the phone yelling at someone named Murray about a contract.

"What can I do to help?" I asked, forcing the violent thoughts from my mind.

She blinked at me, then smiled.

"Oh, sweetheart, thank you for offering, but there's really nothing anyone can do now," she pointed out.

I looked at the ruined house then turned back to her.

"Well, you'll have to rebuild it, won't you?" I asked.

Mrs. Peterson sighed in regret.

"I really love this land. It holds so many memories of Jack and the kids. But Andrew, my son, tells me I should take the insurance money and buy a new place. He wants me to move to an apartment in the city."

I made a face and she laughed.

"My thoughts exactly," she said with a smile.

I looked around again at the peaceful woods then back at my one friend in the world and realized what had to be done.

I took a notebook and pencil out of the backpack I always carried with me.

I told her to describe her dream house for me. I'm sure she thought it nothing more than a game, but she needed a distraction if nothing else.

We spent a good four hours going over every detail of this house she wished for. At first she seemed not to really know what she wanted, but the more she thought about itthe more ideas came to her.

"Mom? It's time to return to the hotel," her son said, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.

She glared at him, then sighed.

"Alright, I'm ready," she said, defeated.

I helped her up from the lawn chair, then carried it to her son's car and loaded it into the trunk.

She thanked me, then looked around.

"How did you get all the way out here?" she asked.

"I walked."

"Well, get in the car. We'll take you home."

I obediently climbed into the back seat and buckled up.

Mrs. Peterson walked over to her son and started talking, gesturing to me. Andrew rolled his eyes looking very put out, but at a stern look from his mother, nodded reluctantly.

She looked satisfied as she walked back to the car and sat in the passenger seat.

"He's going to make sure that the insurance men have our number at the hotel then we'll take you home," she explained.

"Thanks. Mrs. Peterson, what hotel are you staying at?" I asked.

"The Holiday Inn down the street from the library," she said.

"Can I come visit you tomorrow?"

"Oh, we'll be meeting with the insurance company in the morning, but you're welcome to come in the afternoon."

"Promise me you won't sell this land," I said.

"Daniel, I don't think I have a choice," she said, though her eyes looked wistful in the rearview mirror.

I sighed.

"Fine, then promise you'll wait until after you see me tomorrow afternoon," I insisted.

She held my gaze in the mirror for a long moment, then blinked when her son opened the driver side door. She turned around in her seat to look at me, then nodded.

I smiled at her and leaned back in my seat, in my mind the plan was already formulating.

The library was closed when I returned late that evening, but that didn't deter me in the least. I picked the lock on the door, and easily shut off the alarm. It was a government facility, and that meant that the security system was at least ten-years-old.

I spent six hours gathering information from the internet and finding books to help me with my project.

My grandmother was upset when I got home at half-past ten, but I told her about my day and she calmed down. She was glad that I had found a new project to occupy myself with. She always worried that I'd get up to mischief if I didn't have something to keep me busy.

I worked all night on the blueprints and plans for Mrs. Peterson's new house. My grandmother would bring me coffee and snacks as I worked. She never said anything to me just watched me work with a quiet awe. She finally went to bed a little after **two** am. I worked faster without her looking over my shoulder, and five hours later, I finished.

I spent several hours on the phone the next morning, pretending to be Andrew, Mr. Peterson's son. After much finagling, I persuaded several contractors to meet me at her property at eleven.

My grandmother drove me out there, and I was pleased to see that themen were already there.

"You go on, I'll wait in the car," she told me, lighting up a cigarette.

I took a deep breath, and left the car, carrying the plans I'd spent the night laboring over with me.

At first they seemed a bit bemused by me, but as I rolled out the plans and began discussing the job, they quickly became absorbed in my project.

Within two hours, I had three different estimates from builders, electricians, plumbers, landscapers, and interior decorators. I thanked them all, and promised to be in touch very soon.

Now, all I had to do was convince Mrs. Peterson and her son that rebuilding would be a much better option than moving.

When I arrived at the Holiday Inn, Mrs. Peterson was in the lobby waiting for me. She looked a little harassed, and I hurried over to her.

"Daniel, the insurance company is ready to cut me a check, and my son is trying to get them to forward it to his account. I had to stand up to him to stop him, and now I'm worried."

She looked at me imploringly.

"Why did I do that?" **s**he asked.

I gave her a reassuring smile, and began spreading out the plans on a low table.

Her eyes widened as she looked over my work, and for the first time, I felt nervous about my idea. She was my teacher for all intents and purposes, and I really didn't want to disappoint her.

"Oh, Daniel! These are incredible! Did you do this yourself? Last night?" she demanded, her eyes pouring over the pages in excitement.

"Yes. And I met with some contractors this morning," I replied, grinning as I showed her the estimates.

"Well, this isn't bad at all! I can afford this," she exclaimed happily.

Unfortunately her good mood didn't last very long, thanks to her son.

Andrew yelled at her for 'going behind his back'. Then he yelled at me for interfering where I wasn't wanted. He basically threw a fit, and I made sure to stand between him and Mrs. Peterson the whole time.

"I can't believe you're taking the advice of a twelve-year-old over me!" he raged.

"He's a prodigy, Andrew! If you'd just look at the plans you'd see…"

"I'm your son! I know what's best for you!" he cut her off angrily.

There was a tense silence, and I felt Mrs. Peterson put a hand on my shoulder. I didn't dare take my eyes off of Andrew.

"Daniel has been more of a son to me than you could ever hope to be," she said, quietly.

Andrew's face fell. He seemed very hurt by her words.

"Fine. You're on your own then, Mom. I wash my hands of you!"

I grinned when the door slammed shut with an echoing bang.

I turned to Mrs. Peterson, eager to celebrate our victory, but was shocked to see her sink to the floor sobbing.

"What have I done?" she whispered.

End chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. I'm glad to be getting such a good response from this fic. It's a little short today, but I promise that tomorrow's will be longer. Like ten pages or something.

As always, thanks to Michelle beta-ing this!

Chapter Three

Mrs. Peterson was a wreck; I couldn't leave her by herself. I called my grandmother from the courtesy phone in the library.

"Of course she's welcome to stay here, Daniel, but you'll have to give up your room," she pointed out.

I grinned into the receiver.

"As long as I don't have to go back to the drawer," I said with a chuckle.

I had expected to hear her laughter, but silence was all that greeted me.

"Grandmother?"

She sighed.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," she said, and hung up.

Did she feel bad about the drawer? I shook my head. It didn't matter now, not really.

The next six months were the most wonderful of my life up to that point. I spent my days at Mrs. Peterson's house, overseeing the building. I kept up the pretense of being her son, and was allowed to closely follow the project.

I over-heard some of the workers talking about me one day.

"He's a prodigy, you know. Graduated from MIT at ten-years-old," one said.

"Get out! MIT?"

"Yeah, that's why the boss don't mind him hanging around. The kid actually caught a mistake yesterday that would have set us back several weeks," the first man continued.

"Why does he wear that thing on his face?"

"I heard he melted off half his face in a science lab."

I didn't like them speculating about my face, but I had to admit that the MIT rumor was convenient. It spread quickly through site, and soon no one dared to question my authority. Some even came to me for advice or approval. It was wonderful.

I left the house before dawn every morning, walking the ten miles to the work site. I worked hard all day long, only taking an occasional break to sit by the pond and snack on whatever Grandmother packed for me.

At five every evening the workers would leave, and I'd work alone until Grandmother or Mrs. Peterson arrived to drive me home. Once home, I'd shower and then fall into a deep sleep on the couch. The next morning I'd be up and out the door before they awoke.

I avoided looking into mirrors whenever possible; no one could blame me for that. On the night before my thirteenth birthday, I fell onto the couch ready to sleep and was startled to realize that I had suddenly become longer than the couch.

I quickly went into the bathroom and took a good look in the mirror, awed by how much I had changed. I was taller, and much more muscular from all the hard work. My skin was quite brown from being outside in the sun all day, and my chest was much broader. I ran a finger over the slight stubble on my chin and grinned. I might have been only thirteen, but I could pass for sixteen easily.

My callused hands automatically reached for my mask, and then I hesitated. Mentally, I knew that what lay beneath it couldn't possibly have changed. However, after seeing the dramatic change my body had undergone, I felt a surge of desperate hope that my face had fixed itself.

I removed the mask and stared at my face for a good twenty minutes before putting it back on and returning to the couch.

Yes, I still looked like a monster; a mistake of nature.

My gaze landed on a few snapshots scattered on the coffee table. They were of Mrs. Peterson's unfinished house.

Right then, I promised myself that though I might be ugly, I would dedicate my life to creating beautiful things.

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The finished house was gorgeous. It was two stories tall with a full basement, wrap around porch, and impeccably manicured lawn. The long concrete driveway that ran all the way to the street was lined with magnolia trees, Mrs. Peterson's favorite. The house itself was plantation style, like something you'd see on _Gone with the Wind_. Although you'd have to come up the drive quite a ways before you could see it. ** Its ** seclusion is what held the greatest appeal for me.

The finished was very lovely, and I was near bursting with pride as I showed it off to Mrs. Peterson and my grandmother. We were walking through the empty house waiting on the interior decorators to arrive.

Mrs. Peterson was near tears as she gazed over her new home, and I felt a very curious warmth spreading through my chest when I saw them. My grandmother was impressed, and began making suggestions of what she should buy to go in certain places.

Grandmother went outside to meet the decorators, who had just arrived, while Mrs. Peterson and I went on to look at the basement. It was a very large room with high ceilings and a stone floor.

She looked at it for a few minutes, and then nodded as if she'd just made up her mind about something.

"Daniel, the house is more wonderful than I could have ever dreamed! I could never repay you, but I hope that you'll allow me to give you something in return," she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat.

"I don't need this basement because you built me such a large attic. You should make this your own place," she told me.

My jaw dropped, and I began looking at the room as if I was seeing it for the first time.

"You… you want me to live with you?" I asked, incredulously.

"Well, it's a big house, and I'll be all alone in it. You wouldn't have to live with me, just stay over every now and then. You could make yourself a workshop--maybe we could get you a bookshelf, and a desk with a computer…" she trailed off and stared at my face.

I raised my hand to make sure that the mask was still on, and was startled to feel tears. I hadn't even realized I was crying.

"Are you okay?"

I nodded and cleared my throat.

"I just…I've never had a room of my own before," I admitted.

"But the room I've been staying in-"

"That's the guest room."

She gave me a pitying look.

"You've spent your entire life as a guest in your grandmother's home?"

I looked at the floor and nodded.

I stiffened when she suddenly pulled me into a hard hug. When a few moments passed and she didn't release me, I relaxed and rested my head on her shoulder.

She was soft and warm, and I could smell the hairspray that she used to style her gray hair. I'd never had a hug before, and it made me sad to get one now. Now, I knew what I had been missing. It hurt.

"You should have been mine," she whispered so softly that I didn't think I'd heard her correctly.

We broke apart guiltily when we heard the basement door open.

My grandmother called us to come up and talk to the decorators.

We didn't speak of the basement again. Mrs. Peterson simply told them that she wasn't going to do anything with that room for a while. Grandmother and the decorators didn't think much of it, but I knew that it was just her way of telling me that she'd hold the room for me until I wanted it.

The only times I really saw Mrs. Peterson after that was in the library. She invited me over constantly, but as the weather turned colder, I went less and less. It was too long a walk for a simple visit, and though she'd never admit it, Grandmother was showing signs of jealousy over the time I spent with the old librarian.

I planned on spending a lot more time with her when summer rolled around again, but then I learned that her son Andrew had been laid off, and had moved in with her , bringing his baby daughter along with him. I came over a few times, but only when I knew that Andrew wouldn't be there. He didn't like me, and didn't bother to hide that fact.

The last time I came to visit Mrs. Peterson, she was alone with the baby. Her name was Margo, and she even let me hold her for a few minutes. I liked Margo immediately because she had her grandmother's warm brown eyes.

Andrew had come home to find me holding his daughter, and had lost his temper. He threw me out, and forbade me to ever return.

Mrs. Peterson had apologized profusely when I came into the library the next day. But when I asked her how much longer Andrew would be living there, she only shook her head sadly.

Although I saw her almost every day in the library, and we acted as if nothing had changed, I quit visiting her at her home after that.

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Again, thanks for the reviews. I got the inspiration for this story from Susan Kay's _Phantom_. I highly recommend this book for any POTO fan. It's amazing!

Chapter Four

In the October of my fourteenth year, my grandmother got sick. It started out as a cold, and quickly turned into the flu and then pneumonia. I took care of her, even going out to buy medicines from the drugstore and the library to check out books about health and medicine.

It only took me a week to determine that she was dying. She was barely fifty, but years of smoking had deteriorated her lungs so badly that she would never recover.

I called the priest, and he took her to the hospital. I don't like hospitals, so I stayed home.

A man from the government came by the house the next day to take me to a foster home. But I wouldn't go. I told him that I already had a home, so I didn't need one. Luckily, the priest arrived and offered to stay with me, for a few days anyway.

The government official wasn't happy, but he allowed it.

There were no pictures in the house. Not of her, or me, or even her daughter. I awoke late one night deciding that I wanted something to remind me of her.

I snuck out of the house, and walked all the way to the hospital—a good six miles.

The night nurse was sleeping, so I walked right past the nurses' station and into my grandmother'sroom without being noticed.

She was awake and talking to someone I couldn't see.

"Oh, there you are, Daniel," she said, looking delighted to see me for the first time in my life.

"Hello Grandmother," I said, walking to her bedside.

She gave me a sad smile.

"I was afraid you'd miss me. I'm about to leave, you see," she said, then broke into a fit of coughs.

I handed her a cup of water that was beside the bed, and she sipped it carefully.

"Where are you going?" I asked, slipping my backpack off of my shoulders.

"I'm going with Annie," she said, gesturing to the empty spot on the other side of her bed.

"Okay. Can I draw your picture first?" I asked, trying not to stare at that space she'd pointed at.

I couldn't actually see anything there, but I felt it. I knew that my grandmother's daughter, the woman who had given birth to me, was standing there.

My grandmother looked at 'Annie', then turned back to me and nodded.

I settled myself into a chair, and took out a pad and pencil from my backpack and started drawing.

I became so absorbed in my drawing that I didn't notice the little girl who entered the room and watched over my shoulder.

"That's so pretty," she said, and I jumped in my seat at the sound of her voice.

I felt a surge of anger at being interrupted, but when I turned to yell at her, my throat closed on the words, and my lonely heart skipped a beat. The anger vanished as I became lost in the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen.

"Th-thanks," I stammered.

Her perfect pink rosebud lips split into a smile, and I felt myself blush as I felt the urge to kiss her. I'd never kissed anyone before in my life, but I'd seen my share of kisses on the television. This was the first time I had ever met anyone that I desired a kiss from.

I immediately felt ashamed for thinking it; she couldn't be more than three-or-four-years-old, but she had a maturity that was well beyond her years. It was her eyes. The deep blue orbs looked old and wise contrasting greatly with the small body that was young and innocent.

"Is that your mommy?" she asked, looking at the hospital bed.

I blinked. For a moment thereI had forgotten that my dying grandmother was in the room. At first I thought that she was already dead—as her eyes were closed—on closer inspection, I saw that her chest was rising and falling with her uneven breaths.

"No, that's my grandmother. The woman who gave birth to me is dead," I told her.

She gave me a confused look, and I sighed.

"My mommy is dead," I said and saw the dawning comprehension on her young face.

She nodded and gave me a sympathetic look.

"My mommy died when I was a baby," she told me, looking at the floor.

"Mine too," I said, unable to stop myself from reaching out to tug at one of her chestnut curls.

She looked back up at me with a grin.

"Maybe they're friends in heaven together," she said.

It was such an innocent comment that it almost brought tears to my eyes.

I cleared my throat and started drawing again.

"And why are you here?" I asked, putting the final touches on Grandmother's face.

"My daddy's sick. His room is across the hall," she said, but her voice sounded odd. Almost like she was in a trance.

I looked up to see her staring at the spot where 'Annie' was supposed to be.

"What are you looking at?" I asked.

She turned to me, then hesitated before speaking.

"I thought I saw a lady standing there, but when I looked again I couldn't see her anymore," she said.

"Hmm," was all I said as I continued drawing.

This girl had a sort of 'other-worldliness' to her that I found refreshing to be around.

"What's your name?" she asked, and I couldn't stop a wince as I noticed her looking curiously at my face.

"Daniel."

"My name is Dorothy. Hey, both of our names start with 'D'", she said, delighted.

"Mm-hmm."

For a minute or two, the only sound in the room was that of my pencil scratching the surface of the paper.

She yawned, once again drawing my eyes away from my project.

She was looking at me curiously for a moment, and I braced myself for the inevitable question about my mask. Surprisingly, it never came. She seemed to make up her mind about something, then reached out and grabbed my arm to try and pull herself into my lap.

I was so shocked, I couldn't move.

"Daniel, help me up," she commanded, and I automatically obeyed.

My hands let go of the pad and pencil so that I could get a good hold on her, and they hit the floor with a soft thud.

Dorothy curled up against my chest, burying her face in my neck.

"Dorothy? What are you doing?" I asked when I could speak again.

"I'm sleeping, shh!" she whispered.

I smiled and took in a deep breath, enjoying the sweet scent of her hair and skin.

She shifted, trying to get comfortable, then pulled away from me with a sigh.

"I can't sleep," she told me sadly.

"I guess I don't make a very comfortable bed," I said.

This was the longest conversation I'd ever had with someone besides my grandmother, Mrs. Peterson, or the priest, and I was savoring it.

She turned to her other side and curled up against me again.

"You're comfortable enough," she reassured me.

She was silent and still, and for a moment I thought she'd fallen asleep, but then she asked, "Will you sing to me, Daniel?"

I stiffened, remembering the last time I'd attempted to sing.

"I don't sing," I said firmly.

She tilted her head back to look at me with those big baby blue eyes.

"Please?" she begged.

My heart melted, and I was shocked to realize that I could not deny this little angel anything.

I gave a defeated sigh, and she giggled in triumph.

Softly, I began to sing.

_Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,_

_When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,_

_When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,_

_And down will come baby, cradle and all._

When I finished, I looked up to see my grandmother awake and weeping. I myself was crying as the painful emotions that always seemed to surface when I had a brush with music washed over me.

I watched as she wiped the tears from her cheeks and took a shuddering breath.

"Goodbye, Daniel."

"Goodbye, Grandmother."

Then she lay back and shut her eyes.

"I'm ready now, Annie," she said.

I watched as a slight tremor went through her entire body. Then she was still. My grandmother was dead.

The heart monitor started going crazy, and I quickly stood and carried Dorothy out of the room before the nurses caught me in there.

I looked down to see her watching me carefully.

"Where is your father's room," I asked.

I followed where she pointed, and entered the quiet, dark room.

There was a man sleeping on the bed, and a woman sitting in a chair beside him. She was also asleep.

There were no more chairs in the room, but there was another hospital bed on the opposite side of the room. I walked over and awkwardly climbed into it, being careful not to hurt Dorothy.

She kept a tight hold on me as I settled us in the bed, only relaxing her grip on my shirt after I'd stopped moving.

"Daniel? Did your grandmother die?" she asked in a whisper.

I nodded, and then began crying.

Dorothy wrapped her small arms around my neck and I buried my face in her hair, my body shaking with silent sobs. I clutched at her like she was my only lifeline. I must have gripped her too hard, because she gave a small squeak and pulled away.

"I-I'm sorry," I said through my tears, reluctantly letting go of her.

I expected her to get up and leave. Perhaps she'd even wake up the woman and man and I'd get kicked out of the room.

I closed my eyes, trying desperately to get a hold of my grief, when I suddenly felt her press a kiss to my forehead.

My eyes flew open in shock, and I held completely still as she wiped the tears from my cheeks with her tiny fingers. The tears had loosened the prosthetic I wore over my face, and it easily came off in her small hands.

She gasped in shock as she took in my grotesque visage, and though I wanted to close my eyes and spare myself from her reaction, I couldn't seem to move at all.

Her eyes widened, but it wasn't with horror or disgust. No, the look she gave me was one of recognition.

"Erik?"

End Chapter 4

A/N: Yea! Now we're getting somewhere. Only one more chapter left for Book One, then Book Two starts Dorothy/Christine's POV.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Okay this is the last chapter of Book One.

Chapter Five

"Erik?"

Her voice echoed in my head and a wave of emotional pain crashed over me. I squeezed my eyes shut and put a hand to my forehead as if that would make it all go away.

The name pulled at me like an elusive memory, but it would have to be a memory of before I was born. I remembered everything from then on.

In my mind I saw the organ in the underground cavern from my nightmare. Whatever the name 'Erik' meant, it was connected to that place somehow.

I came back to myself hearing Dorothy softly singing a lullaby to me. My eyes flew open and I stared at her in shock.

Her voice, though young and untrained, sounded like the one from my dream. Or at least, I could tell that one day it would.

What did this mean?

I didn't want to leave, but I could see the sky lightening outside the window; I had precious little time before the adults would awaken and the nurses would begin their rounds.

Dorothy was sleeping in my arms, and I was tempted to take her with me. She was asleep against my chest and one of her hands was clenched in my shirt, while the other clung tightly to my prosthetic.

I wanted this little girl with a passion that startled me.

I stroked her soft hair and smiled as her sleeping form huddled closer to me.

It wasn't a sexual passion that I was feeling, although at almost fifteen-years-old I had already begun to experience those longings. No, I just wanted her with me, always. I wanted to teach her things. Everything I knew, if I could. I wanted her affection and child-like love. Perhaps one day, years from now, I could have her physical love.

The man on the bed let out a soft moan, and I knew that I'd need to leave very soon. I ran my hand through her curls one last time, knowing that as much as I wanted to take her with me, I could never take her from her family. Not yet anyway.

I brushed my lips across her forehead, then eased out from underneath her. She stirred but didn't awaken.

"Until we meet again, Angel," I whispered slipping the prosthetic back on my face and leaving the room.

I was confident in the knowledge that we would meet again, even though I didn't know how or when.

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The full impact of Grandmother's death hit me as I walked back to her room. It was empty now, and her body was covered with a sheet.

I wasn't old enough to live on my own, and I knew the only option I'd be given was foster care. This was something I couldn't allow.

I walked over to the phone beside my grandmother's bed and called Mrs. Peterson. As far as I knew, her basement was still empty. If she allowed me to stay with her, I could just stay down there and maybe I wouldn't cross paths with Andrew too many times.

I didn't like it, but it was the only other thing I could think of to do.

When Mrs. Peterson arrived, I was drawing my grandmother again. I was actually on my fifth drawing of her.

I'd pulled the sheet back so I could see her face again. She looked different now.

I flipped back between the picture I'd drawn of her alive, and one of the ones I drew of her corpse. The contrast was startling. In the first one, you could see the burden of life weighing down on her even as she smiled. In the others, she looked so relaxed and at peace that I began to envy her.

I thought of Dorothy and shook my head. I didn't want to die.

"Daniel? Are you okay?" Mrs. Peterson asked from the doorway.

I looked at her and nodded, packing up my things.

I walked over to my grandmother's body for a last look, then covered her with the sheet again and followed Mrs. Peterson to the parking lot.

The priest and the man who had come to take me to foster-care were waiting in the living room when we arrived at my grandmother's house.

"That was very naughty of you, sneaking out like that," the government man reprimanded me.

I rolled my eyes at him, and walked down the hall to the guestroom to pack my belongings without saying a word.

As I packed, I could hear them arguing about me. For a second, I felt a flash of fear that I wouldn't be allowed to live with Mrs. Peterson, but it passed when I realized that no one could really stop me. True, I was still a minor, but that had never stopped me from doing what I wanted before. Hell, I'd built a house! If they sent me to a foster-home, I'd simply run away. It's not like I wasn't capable of it.

When I was finished, I had three suitcases. Only one was filled with clothes and toiletries. The others held books and some of my smaller projects and art supplies.

When I walked back into the living room, Mrs. Peterson was smiling, and another man had joined the group.

He introduced himself as my grandmother's lawyer, and informed me that her entire estate had been left tome. Also, she had willed that Mrs. Peterson become my legal guardian, and I silently thanked her in my head. In the end, Grandmother had finally done something right where I was concerned.

I slept in my basement, in a sleeping bag, on the floor that night. It wasn't comfortable, but I slept with a smile on my face anyway. For the first time, I had my own room.

The priest and some of the men from his church who owned trucks showed up the next morning and took me back to Grandmother's house.

I picked and chose among the furniture, and they hauled it back to Mrs. Peterson's.

I only saw Andrew once that day. In the morning as he was leaving for a job interview, I passed him on the stairs. (I had no bathroom in the basement and had to use the one up there.)

He'd completely ignored me, and after he was out of sight, I gave a sigh of relief. If he kept up his ignoring act, then I wouldn't have to live in constant fear of confrontations with him.

It was nice to have my own bed and wardrobe again. Mrs. Peterson came down to see how I was faring, and wrinkled her nose at my clothes and linens.

Grandmother had always shopped for me at second-hand stores, and it had been a few months since I'd gotten anything new. It seemed I grew an inch at least every week.

"Well, get ready Daniel, we're going shopping," she declared.

I shook my head.

"I don't have any money. They're not auctioning off the house until next weekend," I protested.

"You'll pay me back," she said, waving a hand dismissively.

"I will," I promised.

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I hate shopping. Grandmother had always done it for me, and I began to appreciate and even miss her a little more every day.

Mrs. Peterson bought me an entire new wardrobe, no matter how much I protested that I was still quickly growing and wouldn't be able to wear the new clothes for very long.

She didn't care. She just kept handing me new things to 'try on'. A sales lady waited on us, and with every suggestion she made, my hands itched to strangle her.

We returned home four hours later. I guess it wasn't all bad. I got to buy several new books, a desk and a computer.

My new room was coming together quite nicely. I spent the next week improving my space. I put up walls and two doors to make a bedroom and a bathroom. The money from Grandmother's estate finally arrived, and I eagerly paid Mrs. Peterson what I owed her, then had her take me to buy more supplies. She offered to call a contractor for me, but I declined. This was my room, and I wanted to do it myself.

The plumbing for the bathroom was tricky, and I almost gave up and called a plumber, but thanks to my new internet access, I was able to find a message board and get help with my problems.

The internet is amazing.

I put tile down in the bathroom, installed lights and a ceiling fan in the bedroom. I built bookshelves for the area that I now called my study, and painted all the walls.

I put up a framed picture that I'd drawn of my grandmother on the wall in my study. That was the only piece of artwork I had so far. I had bought some pastel paints, and was hoping I could do a picture of Mrs. Peterson and Margo, maybe out by the pond this spring.

For Christmas, Mrs. Peterson bought me some beautiful Persian rugs. It was nice not to have to walk on the cold stone floor anymore.

Margo had a baby-sitter who stayed with her while Mrs. Peterson was at work and Andrew was out finding work. Two weeks after I moved in, the baby-sitter quit.

Mrs. Peterson said it had nothing to do with me, but the few times I saw the girl, she always seemed quite frightened of me.

Mrs. Peterson worked weekdays at the library, and three-year-old Margo would come down and stay with me in the basement.

I was a bit intimidated at first, but quickly warmed up to her. She was a very happy toddler, and as long as I kept the doors shut and the gate locked at the bottom of the stairs, I didn't have to worry about her wandering off. She always had plenty of toys to keep her occupied, but seemed more fascinated with whatever I was working on.

Mrs. Peterson always spoke to her in a 'baby voice'. As a baby I would have despised that. Yet another reason to be thankful for my grandmother.

Margo was nothing like me, but I still couldn't bring myself to speak to her the way Mrs. Peterson did. She didn't seem to mind though. And every now and then some word I said would amuse her and she say it aloud over and over.

I think I smiled more around her than anyone else.

One day, we had a particularly messy spaghetti lunch, and I had no choice but to bathe her. I was very uncomfortable about this. I'd never even had to change her diaper before because she was potty trained before Mrs. Peterson started leaving her with me.

But she had clumps of spaghetti in her hair, and I just didn't see any way around it. So I carried her, holding her at arms' length, up to the upstairs bathroom where all her bath toys and soaps were.

Margo was absolutely delighted by the prospect of having a bath and obligingly lifted her arms so that I could remove her soiled dress. She clumsily stepped out of her _Beauty and the Beast_ panties, and ran – naked – to the tub.

"Water, Dan-Dan!" she called happily, turning to look at me with a grin.

I smiled back, and quickly filled up the tub, being careful to keep the water slightly warm and not hot.

She splashed and played with her bath toys while I attempted to clean her up and stay dry in the process. Apparently there are some things that even I can't master.

I drained the water and wrung out my t-shirt, which was soaking wet. The only towels I could find were much too big, but she loved it when I wrapped her up tight in one and carried her to her room.

I sat her down on the daybed and began searching for clothes for her. I'd hold up a dress and she'd say 'nope', and I'd resume looking.

She ran around her room, chattering non-stop in baby gibberish mixed with real words, as she pulled out almost every toy she owned to show me.

I finally wrestled her into fresh clothes, and picked her up to take her back downstairs.

"No! I want my toys!" she cried, squirming desperately to get down.

"But Margo, you've got toys down in my room to play with, remember?" I asked, trying to reason with her.

I should have known better, she was only three.

"But I want these toys," she said, two fat tears rolling down her chubby cheeks.

I sighed. Two weeks with the girl, and she already had me wrapped around her finger.

"Alright, you can pick one toy to take with you," I relented, placing her on the floor, and she ran to the toy box, excitedly looking over her choices.

Twenty minutes later, she finally decided on a book.

I nodded my approval and carried her down the stairs. As we were walking through the living room to get to the basement door, she had me stop, and ran to the easy chair in front of the television.

"Read to me, Dan-Dan," she said, hauling herself up into the empty chair.

I hesitated and looked at the clock. Andrew wasn't due home for another couple of hours at least; so I could find no harm in staying up here for a while.

I walked to the chair and picked her up so that I could sit down. I placed her in my lap and she opened the book.

As she settled herself in my lap I was reminded of Dorothy, and began to wonder what she was doing at the time. She was about Margo's age. Did she have someone to read to and bathe her?

We made it through about half of Cinderella before both of us fell asleep.

The only blemish on my otherwise happy life was Andrew. He spent his days looking for work, and his nights spending Mrs. Peterson's money at bars and strip clubs. He was disgusting, and I didn't want him around my new family any longer.

Of course he arrived home early that day, and I awoke to see him glaring at me from the doorway of the living room. I automatically tightened my arms around the sleeping Margo as if to protect her from her own father.

Andrew didn't say anything at all, and after a few minutes, he spun on his heel and went into the kitchen. I heard the sound of a beer can being open, and knew that I needed to be out of his way when he came back.

As silently as possible, I carried Margo down to my room, making sure to dead bolt the lock on the door.

I placed her in my bed, and went to find my tools.

Andrew would spend the next couple of hours drinking. Then Mrs. Peterson would get home, he'd demand money from her, then leave to go drink some more.

I glanced at the sleeping girl in my bed. I'd come to think of her as a little sister, and decided that I needed to take action to keep her safe.

So, I pulled out my wire-cutters, and slipped outside through a secret back door in my bedroom, that not even Mrs. Peterson knew I'd put in.

I calmly walked to his car, and found his brake-line. It was a simple thing to cut the wires, almost all the way. His brakes would work for a little while, but by the time he was driving home tonight, drunk no doubt, they'd give out.

I smiled a grim smile, and quickly returned to the basement.

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His blood-alcohol was very high that night, and when the police removed his body from the vehicle that had been crushed into a tree, they didn't even take the time to study the brakes.

With Andrew dead, life became almost perfect. Mrs. Peterson and Margo were sad for a while, but then spring came and they returned to their pleasant selves. I even talked them into posing for my pastel painting by the pond.

That summer I prepared Margo, who I now referred to as 'my little sister', for school. She'd be starting kindergarten in the fall, and was very excited. She was only four, but after spending so much time around me, she had a very broad grasp of knowledge. She had passed a special test that allowed her to start school a year early.

I turned sixteen and got my driver's license. I used a good chunk of my inheritance to buy a car, but it was worth it.

One Saturday afternoon in August, I was alone in the house while the girls went school shopping. They knew better than to ask me along. I still shudder when I think about that one shopping trip I was forced into. Since then, I'd stuck to buying clothes and things off of the internet. If it didn't fit, I'd just send it back. That was the only way to shop!

I was absentmindedly flipping through the channels on the television. I had watched it so much as a baby that I didn't care for it much anymore. However on this particular day, I was bored.

A commercial caught my attention. It was an ad for a musical that was being put on by the local theater, Andrew Lloyd Webber's _The Phantom of the Opera._

I'd never heard of it, but that wasn't surprising, as I always went out of my way to avoid anything that had to do with music.

I was about to change the channel again, when I saw him.

It was a man wearing a mask and a fedora.

The thirty-second commercial didn't give me enough information, so I quickly headed to my computer. The internet would have my answers.

A few hours later, I lay on my bed trying to process everything that I'd just learned. _The Phantom of the Opera_ was a story that I'd never heard before, and yet I could almost remember living it. If I didn't know better, I'd say that I was the Phantom in a past life. But that was absurd! The characters in the story never actually existed!

It was fiction. And yet, I knew it was true. Dorothy had told me who I was the night I met her.

_Erik_

From that point forward, I became Erik. I delved into the study of music and opera. When the painful emotions crashed over me upon hearing the swells of sound, I embraced them.

The first thing I did was legally change my name from Daniel to Erik.

Mrs. Peterson was worried at first, but I assured her it was what I wanted.

Within a week I had a piano, organ, and violin in the house. A month later I had mastered all three.

My music, and my voice, which never missed a pitch, captivated Mrs. Peterson and Margo. My 'little sister' had begun taking ballet lessons after school, and delighted in twirling around the room as I played.

Yes indeed, I had found my calling in life. It was music, and I was the Phantom of the Opera.

Now all I needed was my Christine.

End Book One

On to Book Two...


End file.
